In a deliberately casual movement, Michael rested one elbow on the armrest of his chair and smiled at his host. “I believe I should see Lt. Gen. Yehuda Almog as soon as possible, sir. I have news that will concern him, and I am prepared to offer him assistance. But this matter is sensitive, and I cannot reveal more without speaking to General Almog.”
Yanai’s expression shifted from polite interest to pained tolerance. “I know all about your mission, Captain Reed, and I do appreciate its sensitivity. I myself have spoken to the chief of the general staff this morning and have received my orders.”
Michael lifted a brow. “Regarding me?”
“Precisely. I am to assign you to one of our sergeant majors, with whom you will tour our bases and see for yourself what our needs are. Since your president has graciously extended an offer of weapons and munitions, we will reciprocate by allowing you unfettered access to our military bases. The prime minister himself has authorized your visit, so you will be able to make a complete report to President Stedman.”
Michael forced his lips to part in a curved, still smile. “I am not here to play the role of tourist, General. I am here to do an honest assessment. Surely there is some way I can learn what I need to know without being dragged from base to base by some sergeant major.”
Yanai’s eyes darkened and shone with an unpleasant light. “I could give you a wish list, and I could give you an inventory. Both would answer your questions and technically fulfill your mission. But pieces of paper will not settle the problems in the Holy Land, Captain Reed. Neither peace treaties, nor inventories, nor maps will make one whit of difference in our situation. You will find your answers, sir, when you walk among our people and see our needs with your own eyes. You will be able to make a full and complete report only if you travel throughout Israel and observe with your heart as well as your eyes.”
Michael stared, caught off guard by the sudden vibrancy of his host’s voice. The Israelis had always been unpredictable, but he had no idea the IDF was run by warrior poets. But as long as he was on foreign soil, he had to play by their rules.
He inclined his head in a nod of agreement. “Very well, sir. I will travel with this sergeant major and keep a low profile. I trust we will have no difficulties with security clearances?”
“None whatsoever. We will issue the sergeant major and yourself special passes so you can enter any protected area you please.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The general cleared his throat and held up a warning finger. “I should point out one area of concern. The officer I have in mind, Sergeant Major Cohen, is extremely qualified—a graduate of our counterterrorist program and a former member of Sayeret Mat’kal.”
Michael nodded. The Sayeret Mat’kal, also known as General Staff Recon Unit 269, was the primary unit dedicated to hostage rescue missions within Israel. Commandos went through one year and eight months of training before they were fully qualified, and only the best recruits made it to Unit 269.
“A career officer,” the general continued, “the sergeant major is pleasant, diplomatic, and intelligent. Cohen speaks four languages—Arabic, French, Hebrew, and English—and is absolutely the best person for this job.”
Michael filled in the silence when he paused: “However?”
Yanai tilted his head and gave Michael a wry smile. “Sergeant Major Cohen does not particularly care for Americans. Too many encounters with zealous tourists, I would imagine, so I would tread carefully if I were you.” The general studied Michael thoughtfully for a moment. “Already I can see that you are a man of discretion. I do not believe you and the sergeant major will have any problems.”
Someone rapped on the door, and the general called out the command to enter. The female aide entered first, then held the door open as a pair of smiling young men in white tunics wheeled in a luncheon cart. Apparently serving the general was quite an honor.
After lunch, the general summoned an aide to drive Michael to Lod, a major airbase that shared space with Ben Gurion International Airport. Located halfway between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, the base lay in the geographic center of the nation.
They made the trip in a closed vehicle from which warm air sputtered from the air-conditioning vents. A reluctant grin tugged at Michael’s mouth as he held his briefcase and sweated inside his jacket. He knew the general meant to keep his visit low-key, but this was ridiculous. Couldn’t he have arranged for a car with air conditioning that worked?
The cloudless sky above them shimmered with heat, and as they sped along the open road a mirage made the rocky hills in the distance dance. The general’s aide, a talkative fellow named Shaul, was unskilled in English but eager to practice on a captive audience. From Tel Aviv to Lod, Michael gamely nodded and smiled to a series of innocent questions about the New York Yankees and American movie stars.
Shaul flashed a pass at a security gate, then parked the vehicle and led Michael toward a windowless concrete-and-brick building. “Sergeant Major Cohen did not learn of your coming until about an hour ago,” Shaul explained, opening a glass door and waiting for Michael to enter first. “Knowing it would take a long time for us to drive, the major was permitted to complete the classes. As soon as they are finished, the major is OK to travel with you.”
“Thanks, Shaul.” Michael showed his temporary clearance badge to the sentry on duty, then offered his briefcase for inspection. After giving Michael a careful head-to-toe look, the sentry stepped aside and waved them inside.
“This way,” Shaul said, leading Michael through a gleaming tiled hallway that smelled faintly of disinfectant. He paused outside a door and peered through the glass window, then looked at Michael and jerked his head in a movement that clearly indicated Michael was expected to follow.
Michael felt the top of his ears heat to red when he realized Shaul had escorted him to the wrong place. This was a classroom of some sort, and the men and women sitting at the metal desks were dressed in everything from jeans to business suits. A woman in uniform stood at the front of the room, however, and from the look on her face Michael surmised that she did not like interruptions.
He turned, about to exit, but the general’s aide blocked his path. Grinning, Shaul pointed to a pair of empty seats near the door, then slid into one. Irritated and uncomfortable, Michael followed suit.
The woman had paused in midsentence when he entered, but continued her lecture once he and Shaul sat down. Michael sank down low in the desk, hoping to avoid her attention, and leaned toward Shaul. “What are we doing here? Shouldn’t we be trying to find the sergeant major?”
Shaul used his wide palm to block the instructor’s view of his face, then pointed toward the front of the room with his other hand. “She is Sergeant Major Cohen.”
Michael folded his arms across his chest and groaned inwardly. Why hadn’t he been more forceful when he told President Stedman he was not the right man for this assignment? Not only had he been thrust into hot, uncomfortable circumstances, but apparently he had been paired with an Israeli officer who hated Americans—a female Israeli officer. He lowered his head into his hand. If his luck ran true to form, the woman at the front of the room hated men, too.
“Let me remind you, ladies and gentlemen,” she was saying, her voice rich and deep, “there are an unlimited number of ways to die and any number of people willing to inflict one of those ways upon you. But, with proper training, you can increase your odds of survival . . . a bit.”
A twitter of nervous laughter filled the room, and Michael frowned, knowing that those who laughed had no idea how right this lady was. Who were these people? Death was no laughing matter.
“Sergeant Major?” A big guy with an Elvis-style pompadour lifted his hand. “Do you really think I’ll be in danger when I’m out in the field? After all, I’m just the guy who reports the news. I don’t make it.” He shifted in his seat and flashed her a smile. “Unless you want to help me make some headlines.”
Michael stiffened in his ch
air. Good grief, the guy was flirting with her!
The sergeant major ignored both the smile and the flippant offer. “Terrorists do not care whom they hurt, sir. They want headlines, and if your entourage is carrying a camera, you become a natural target. Which would be more likely to make the news—an attack upon a military patrol or the ambush of a news crew?”
A half dozen hands rose into the air, but Sergeant Major Cohen waved them away. “Please, no more interruptions. I have several points to make, and you should take notes. We will meet next week to discuss any further questions you might have.”
Michael leaned back in his chair, finally understanding the purpose of this little gathering. These were news people, reporters, newscasters, and camera crews from all over the world. Rather thoughtful of the Israeli government to give them a crash course in how to survive a terrorist attack— particularly since many of the world’s terrorists were now honing their murderous skills in Russia.
“Around the world, more than five hundred reporters have been killed on the job since 1986,” the instructor continued, her dark eyes roaming over the group, “so you must learn how to better your chances of survival. First, if you are attacked by gunfire, do not think a car door, concrete blocks, or tree trunks will save you. They might catch a bullet or two, but they will not shield you for long. The safest place is behind a double row of sandbags. Unless you happen to see a wall of sandbags nearby, run as fast as you can. Don’t try to play the hero or catch the perfect photo. You will catch a bullet if you do.”
Pencils scribbled furiously, and Michael was pleased to note that at least a few of the civilians seemed to be taking her seriously.
“If the enemy is throwing grenades, run. If you are unable to escape, lie down with the soles of your feet pointing toward the blast. Your shoes can take the concussion and shrapnel far better than your head. You can live without a foot; you cannot live without a brain.”
The flirtatious newscaster spoke up: “If we had brains, we wouldn’t be here.”
The class erupted in laughter, and the sergeant major indulged them with a small smile. “If caught in a cross fire, lie down until the shooting stops,” she went on, locking her hands behind her back as she paced in a tidy pattern at the front of the room. “If caught in a mortar attack, lie down in a hole made by a previous shell—because lightning and mortar rarely strike the same place twice. To see if an area is mined, look for unusual patterns of disturbed soil, rocks, or leaves. And, unless absolutely necessary, stay away from trouble spots.”
She continued, launching into a discourse on the fallibility of bulletproof vests, while Michael rested his chin on his fist and watched her. Sergeant Major Cohen was a very attractive woman, as slim as a pleat in her khaki uniform. A cloud of brunette hair fell to her shoulders in undulating waves, and she wore just enough lipstick to emphasize her perfectly shaped mouth. The set of her chin suggested a stubborn strength, and she held her head high with pride. Hard to believe this woman could shoot out the center of a playing card at fifty meters, but if she were a member of Sayeret Mat’kal, Michael knew she could.
“Now let us discuss the etiquette of kidnapping.” Cohen turned to Mr. Elvis in the second row and smiled at him like a cat that has just spied a mouse. “Sir, if you were accosted by terrorists and found yourself wearing a burlap bag over your head, what would you do?”
The reporter made a faint moue of distaste. “I’d rip it off. How can I escape if I can’t see where I’m going?”
“Then you’d be dead.” She delivered these words in a flat, expressionless voice, then lifted her gaze and scanned the others in the class. “Obey your captors. You are not James Bond, and life is not like the movies. If you are taken hostage, do not speak unless spoken to. Make enough eye contact to let your kidnappers know you are human, but do not stare at them long enough to appear threatening. Do not cower; do not take charge. Do what you are told to do. But if your captors start to execute your fellow captives, kick, scream, bite, foam at the mouth. Do whatever you must to get away.”
“Wait a minute.” The flirt leaned his head back and looked at her. “We’re trusting you with our lives. Why can’t you military people just keep the terrorists away from us?”
“The freedom ordinary civilians enjoy also protects terrorists,” she said, her stare drilling into the obnoxious reporter. “Unless you want to live in a virtual police state, sir, you would do well to be cautious. Governments and organizations that cannot afford to launch full-scale wars will always resort to terrorism, for they can terrorize a thousand by killing one. By striking at the heart of innocent civilians, they can terrify people far more effectively than they could in war.”
Her extraordinary eyes blazed as she looked out at her students. “If you are ever taken hostage, remember that you are like the State of Israel. You cannot afford to lose a single war. You must determine the outcome of your situation as quickly and decisively as possible. You must try to avoid bloodshed by political means and by maintaining a credible deterrent posture. You must not seek glory. Your primary aim should be to defend your life with everything in your power.”
The nervous twittering had completely evaporated, and a sea of silence greeted these final words. “We will not meet tomorrow or the next day,” she said, bringing her hands together as she turned toward the lectern. “But next week we will hold mock drills in the field. Come prepared—physically and mentally. Wear old clothes—you will get dirty.”
She sent them out the door with a smile. “See you next week.”
Michael remained in his seat, his gaze on the desktop as the sober students filed past him. Sergeant Major Cohen obviously knew her stuff, and if she wasn’t trustworthy the IDF wouldn’t have tapped her to accompany him. From the impressions of the last ten minutes, he gathered she was bright, attractive, and a flaming Zionist—three qualities he didn’t particularly want in an escort. Dull, ordinary, and impassive would suit him much better.
When the last student had left the room, Shaul stood and ambled toward the front of the room. He spoke to her in Hebrew, then pointed toward Michael.
Slowly, Michael stood and offered what he hoped was a diplomatic, let’s-be-friends smile.
The sergeant major followed Shaul to the back of the room, then gave Michael a brusque nod. “Sgt. Maj. Devorah Cohen,” she said, extending her hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Captain Reed.”
Michael noted the delicate strength of her grip as he shook her hand. “But not so pleased about this assignment, I’d wager.”
She acknowledged the success of his mind reading with a slight smile. “Quite true. I am in the midst of an urgent family situation and did not expect to be pulled into a special duty. I would have asked that someone else be assigned to you, but—”
“By all means, Sergeant Major, don’t let me get in your way.” Michael stepped aside and gestured toward the door. “I was just thinking there are probably a hundred soldiers better suited for this assignment.”
She took a step forward, then halted. One dark brown eye glinted back over her shoulder, and one corner of her perfect mouth twisted. “Are you saying I am not fit to play tour guide?”
“Not at all.” Michael thrust his hands behind his back, uncomfortably aware that Shaul was silently fizzing with laughter. “But it will require many hours for several days. And you just said your husband and children need you.”
She turned slowly, her gaze relentlessly drilling into him. “The family emergency is with my father. And even if I had a husband and child, my commitment to the Israeli army would come first. We are not like you Americans, Captain Reed. We do not take our freedom for granted, and we are quite serious about our military obligations.”
His jaw clenched as he rejected her softly spoken accusation. He had given his life to the service of his country and had risked his neck more times than he could count. This woman didn’t know diddly about him or his work, and yet she had the unmitigated gall to accuse him of being uncommitte
d . . .
Michael tipped his head back and drew a deep breath, tamping down his anger. He couldn’t lose his cool now, not when Stedman was counting on him. But how could he proceed? He did not particularly want this woman with him, and she obviously did not want this assignment. But President Stedman and General Yanai asked him to do his work quietly. He had the feeling that if he allowed Sergeant Major Cohen to find a replacement, the story of his perceived snobbery would be spread throughout the IDF within twenty-four hours.
“I can assure you, Sergeant Major Cohen, that I do not take freedom for granted.” He managed a small, tentative smile. “I would be honored if your schedule would permit you to be my escort. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but my task is quite urgent.”
The angry color was fading from her cheeks, but her liquid brown eyes were still bright with indignation. “We will talk in my office,” she said, pointedly reminding him that Shaul stood nearby, listening to every word. “And I will fulfill this assignment at least for the rest of the day. I wouldn’t trouble my CO with the task of finding a last-minute substitute.”
He nodded his agreement, reminded Shaul that he would need his luggage from the vehicle, then followed the remarkable Sergeant Major Cohen through the polished hallway.
In her small office, Sergeant Major Cohen pulled a map of Israel from her filing cabinet and spread it on her desk. “The locations of our military bases are marked with blue stars,” she said, smoothing the map with her hand while the American looked on. She wasn’t certain, but she thought his face fell with disappointment when he saw the constellation of more than a dozen stars.
She suppressed a smile as he pressed his hands to the desk and groaned softly. He had probably been expecting a plum assignment, but this one would take time and effort. A complete on-site inspection of a single military base could take up to three days. To further complicate matters, several bases were located in the West Bank, occupied now by the PLO.
“Well, Captain?” She waited until he looked up and met her gaze. “Where shall we begin?”
By Dawn's Early Light Page 11
